


Fight or Flight

by TheMidnightOwl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Dialogue Heavy, Heavy Angst, Post-Reichenbach, i tried not to make it so dialogue oriented but there's some pretty lengthy monologues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:39:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMidnightOwl/pseuds/TheMidnightOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock didn't die after the fall.  But a year in to tearing down the rest of Moriarty's organization, he gets shot and killed.  Mycroft decides to inform John, thinking he deserves to know the truth.  John does not take it very well.  Mycroft's sympathy surprises both of them.  One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight or Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Someone posted the idea for this on Tumblr and it was asked that someone write it. So I did. I had no idea the life it would take on once I really sat down to write it. Hope you enjoy it!

He hadn’t heard from Mycroft Holmes in over a year.  After Sherlock had… fallen… He couldn’t bring himself to associate with the elder Holmes.  Come to think of it, he hadn’t much associated with anyone he had met through the detective.  The very sight of them, one way or another, sent his memories back to that gloomy day on the streets of London.  Overcast and gray, with a drizzle starting to settle on the city, the blood of his best friend painting the sidewalk.  

He shook his head.  He wouldn’t go back to that place in his head already.  He hadn’t even gotten to the café yet.  

Frankly, he was surprised Mycroft had called ahead and set up a meeting with him, instead of having a driver appear on the street to fetch him as he was walking home from work or something.  Perhaps he thought it would be too awkward after a year of absence. Or perhaps, and he dreaded the possibilities, the matter was delicate and needed to be handled more personally.  The one and only time Mycroft had ever met with him in a café, they were discussing what to tell Sherlock about the fate of Irene Adler, someone they both could see plainly he cared for on some caliber.  His left hand shook; he flexed and squeezed the digits, not slowing his pace.

He was thankful, though in denial of just how much, that Mycroft had not elected to meet at Speedy’s on Baker Street.  Since moving out of his and Sherlock’s shared flat, John had taken extra precautions to avoid the street he still considered home, even if it meant the cab fare costing him a little more.  Seeing that street alive and well without Sherlock living there would rip him apart.  There was no Baker Street without Sherlock Holmes in his mind.

The bell on the door chimed as he stepped through the threshold into a warm and comfortable coffee shop away from the more populous tourist zones of the city.  Glancing around quickly, he saw Mycroft Holmes alone at a two-person table, reading something on his mobile.  Steeling himself, John approached him, hoping silently that his hand had ceased its tremors.

Mycroft looked up at the presence, and forced a smile.  His false grins were not as convincing as his brother’s.  “John,” he said pleasantly, “Have a seat.”

John sat, greeting him with a breathy “thank you.”

Putting his mobile away, Mycroft adjusted his posture and rested his hands in his lap.  “Would you like anything?  Coffee?  Tea?”

“I’m alright,” John dismissed.  Something was off about the elder Holmes.  He was always a difficult one to read, but at the moment, he appeared almost vulnerable.  There was an odd glint in his eyes, unpleasant in the sympathy it called for.  

When their server approached them, Mycroft ordered a tea for him anyway, exactly how he knew John took it.  John wondered idly if Mycroft still kept tabs on him.  

John’s heart rate increased.  If he was insisting, this could not be good.  Then again, if Mycroft was asking for his audience now after more than a year of total silence (mostly due to his own refusal to even think about the man), it must be urgent.

His tea was brought out quickly, and Mycroft just stared until John took a sip.  It was lovely; prepared like a homemade brew.  If not for the nerves in his chest, he may have paid more attention to the drink.  But he was more interested in the words he could see Mycroft contemplating how to voice.

The government official folded his hands on the table.  “John,” he finally spoke, “There is something I need to tell you.”

“Obviously,” the former soldier quipped lightly.

He saw Mycroft’s lip twitch.  “The circumstances of Sherlock’s death… Were not what they appeared to be.”

John felt his hand quivering again; he dropped it in to his lap.  “How do you mean?”

The elder Holmes clenched his jaw, then let out a defeated sigh.  Clearly he was opting for the blunt delivery now.  “John, Sherlock didn’t commit suicide.  He didn’t die that day.  He staged his death.”

The soldier’s eyes widened.  He did not notice that his jaw had fallen slack until he tried to speak.  “W...what?”

“He did not tell me very much,” there was a hint of sorrow in his tone, “Only called a day or two later to tell me that he was alive and that if I let anything happen to you in his absence he would disown me and singlehandedly bring the system to a crashing halt in a way that would have Irene Adler gasping for breath, were she still breathing.  He was protecting you; apparently there was a target on your back that even I had not detected.”  Guilt flashed across his features for just a moment.  “He faked his death to get ahead of Moriarty’s network.  They were expecting him to jump, all part of Moriarty’s plan, which he bested by letting them believe it to be true.  Before he hung up he said he was going to finish what he started and dismantle the rest of the web.  I asked him to let me help, but, well, you know better than anyone his stubbornness.  He claimed I had done enough by letting Moriarty get that close to you.  Then he hung up.  That was the last I heard from him for a while.”

John swallowed.  “Okay… so, so what?  Is he coming back?”

When Mycroft looked up again, he looked more human than John had ever seen him.  Vulnerability threatened to shatter his composure.  He swallowed thickly.  “A week ago he informed me he had intercepted a transmission, and discovered a very large hideout for a significant faction of the organization.  He recognized that it was too big for him to tackle alone.  So he requested some additional units.  I told him I would do what I could.  These things are delicate, you know.  But eventually I was able to get him some assistance.”  He paused.  “The raid was successful, but Sherlock… he had not told us everything he knew.  Apparently there was a man in there: ex-military, decorated, but eventually dishonorably discharged for misconduct.  His name was Sebastian Moran, and he was James Moriarty’s right hand.  Sherlock went after him.  The raid team lost track of him in the commotion.  When they found him-” the older man actually choked on his words.

John’s heart lurched.  “What?” He didn’t care that his voice cracked.

Mycroft collected himself.  The cold composure in his eyes made a chill run up John’s spine.  “They found a battered and bloody Moran.  Bludgeoned to death with a blunt object.  He was brain dead by the time they arrived.  Sherlock was next to him.  There was… there was a bullet wound in his chest.  The bullet severed his aortic artery; he bled out before they could get the medics to him.”  Mycroft stopped talking.  

John couldn’t breathe.  “He’s… he’s gone?”  

“He wanted to protect you, to do it properly, so that Moriarty and his factions could never threaten you again.  I have thought many things about my brother - some of them praising, some of them rather insulting - but I never thought him capable of such compassion.  I never gave him much credit in terms of emotional capability.  I have never been so wrong in my life.  Of all things to be wrong about, I had to go and underestimate him.  I made a promise to myself that I would never be one of the ones to undermine him, and I did.  I would say he loved you, but as I am discovering, I did not know much about him.  But I know he cared for you deeply, and wanted you safe.  I thought you had the right to know.”

The doctor’s vision was blurring.  He felt sick.  Suddenly he was thankful for the tea, but found he could not move his arms to pick up the cup again.  He could feel it, too; the absence.  Part of his mind would not accept that Sherlock was gone after his fall.  None of him was willing to accept the blatant lie the man wanted him to swallow, but even after the funeral, when staring at a name on a headstone is meant to offer closure, he did not believe it.  It had felt like Sherlock was still out there somewhere.  The world was not without his greatness.  

Now, everything felt empty.

  _Run._

The soldier pushed his chair back and stormed out of the café onto the street.  He heard a voice call his name, but did not care.  He didn’t care about anything.

 

When he came to, he saw a silhouette hovering over him, heard a buzzing in his ears that he could not organize in to words.  As his vision and hearing focused, he recognized his name, then the voice, then the face, of Mycroft Holmes.

“What-”

“I followed you out of the café.  You made it to the park before you collapsed.”  An admiring half-smile curled his lips.  He was helped to his feet.  “Should I be calling an ambulance, Doctor Watson?”

_Fight._

Anger released adrenaline into his veins like a floodgate.  With a quick recoil, John cracked his fist against Mycroft’s teeth in a blur of motion.  The government official stumbled backwards to keep on his feet, a look of shock on his face.  John landed another blow to his stomach, but his fist was caught at its next attempt on the taller man’s face.  Relentless, John bent his knees and pushed his weight forward into a well-executed headbutt, colliding with Mycroft’s jaw in a way that would only be painful for him.  Mycroft released him.

“I lost him once,” John spat venomously, “I was a bloody fucking _mess_ after he killed himself.  It took me weeks to be able to even say his name.  You were watching me at first, I know you were.  You know _exactly_ what a state I was in.  And now you tell me that that had been a lie, that he was alive, but I’ll still never get him back because it’s real now?  What on earth made you think that was a good idea?!”

“Jo-”

“I’ve lost him _twice_ now!  This isn’t condolences, Mycroft!  This is fucking taunting!  You should have just let me go on assuming he had died on that bloody pavement!  I was moving on!”

“You still believed in him,” Mycroft wiped the blood from his lip onto a handkerchief, “after he died.  I wanted you to know that your loyalty wasn’t for nothing.”

“Oh, well how fucking thoughtful of you,” John sneered, “but that’s the difference between you and me.  I _know_ how absolutely brilliant Sherlock was.  I _know_ that he’s capable of so much more than the rest of us.  More than me, and more than you.  I _know_ that my loyalty wasn’t for nothing, because I never questioned him, and never belittled him like you did.  I _know_ that he wasn’t some heartless prick.  His problem wasn’t that he didn’t feel, Mycroft.  His problem was that he felt too much.  So he tried to beat it down, because that’s what people like _you_ taught him to do.  He couldn’t be brilliant and still have a heart.  He couldn’t be taken seriously if he felt, but he wouldn’t be respected without feeling.  People like _you_ trapped him.  He was confused.  I helped him.  I know what I was to him.  _You?_ He knew about as much about you as I do.  This meeting wasn’t about me at all, and you know it.  This was for you, you selfish bastard, so that you could get some closure, assure yourself that you made all the right calls so that you don’t have to feel anything about any of this.  Well I’m not giving you any of that.  I’ve lost him twice now.  Normal people give a damn when they lose someone.  Normal people grieve, they don’t distract themselves with other people’s pain and try to remain above it all by watching others suffer.  So fuck you very much.”

The soldier turned on his heels and made to go back to his flat.  He wanted nothing to do with the older Holmes brother anymore.  

“You don’t think I care?” Mycroft did not sound angry, more like taken aback.

“I think people were calling the wrong Holmes brother a sociopath all those fucking years!” John shouted, not bothering to turn round.  

_Run._

 

Three weeks had passed since Mycroft had told him of Sherlock’s true death.  He limp was back again.  It took him two months to retrain himself to walk without his cane after the detective’s suicide.  He dreaded how long it would take him to this time, now that the world felt genuinely empty.  He felt empty.  Maybe he shouldn’t bother to get rid of the limp this time.  At least with a constant pain in his leg, he still felt something.

A sleek, black car pulled up to the curb a few meters ahead of him.  A young woman stepped out onto the pavement from the back seat, one he barely recognized without her nose in her mobile.  She offered him a weak smile, but she looked too pale to be in a genuinely pleasant mood.

“Tell Mycroft he can go fuck himself,” John told the woman he only knew by the name of Anthea in a falsely cheerful tone.  He kept his pace, looking through her once he was done addressing her.  Her hands fidgeted uncomfortably, and her expression dropped.  

The door of the vehicle opened again, and out stepped Mycroft Holmes.  John laughed once, the sound hollow and hateful.  “Perfect, now I can myself.  Go.  Fuck.  Yourself.”

Mycroft held out a hand to stop him.  “John.”

“What part of ‘piss off’ are you not getting?” John demanded, allowing the hand to stop him but standing his ground.  

“We need to discuss this further.”

“There’s nothing left to discuss.”  A bloodthirsty smile formed on his lips.  “As far as I’m concerned you’re dead too.”

Mycroft’s expression was as frustratingly unreadable as ever.  He nodded towards Anthea, who made for the back of the vehicle, only to emerge with a case of some sort.  John recognized it as a violin case.  His eyes widened.

“It’s yours to have,” Mycroft offered calmly, taking it from his assistant and holding it in John’s direct line of sight, “if you’ll agree to talk further.”

John felt his knees weakening and his heart lurching at the sight of the violin case.  When he had left Baker Street, he had done so with barely a word, just told Mrs. Hudson that he was moving out.  Movers collected his stuff.  He figured Mycroft had sent someone to collect Sherlock’s personal items, but had not given it much thought until now.  Sherlock left items behind.  The violin that had woken him up at 4:30 in the sodding morning on more than one occasion with the sounds of the brilliant detective’s internal world had not crossed his mind for so long.  Anyone who heard Sherlock’s personal compositions heard his soul; it occurred to him that perhaps he and Mrs. Hudson were the only ones to ever truly hear those original pieces.  The violin… it was the closest he could be to Sherlock anymore.

He found himself following the case in to the back seat of the car.  Mycroft placed it on the ground at his feet, just out of reach of the soldier.  The driver waited for Anthea to settle in the passenger seat before merging in to the busy city traffic.

 

John did not expect to be driven back to his flat, but the driver stopped directly outside his new residence.  Mycroft gestured for him to exit, and he did, looking behind him only to make sure that the older was bringing the violin case.  Assured, he unlocked and opened the door, stepping inside and leaving it open for his only-slightly welcome guest.

He suppressed his inner English instinct to offer the man tea, justifying it with the assumption that the elder Holmes would turn it down.  He’d never seen him sip at anything other than a glass of expensive Brandy or some other sort of alcoholic beverage.  They sat at the dining table, and John reclined impatiently, waiting for Mycroft to say what he wanted to say.  The sooner he finished, the sooner John could make him leave.  _Without_ the violin case in hand.

The man who was the British government hesitated.  “I understand your presumption that my brother’s demise does not affect me.  Given my minimal reaction at the time of his faked suicide-”

“-and your absence at the funeral,” John hissed.

“-and my absence at his funeral, it is a reasonable assumption.  But I was unaffected because I was reassured that he was out there somewhere, whereas you only had your hope.  I was absent at the funeral because I was aiding him in getting transport out of the country.  I like to pretend that I did so inconspicuously, but I know he is aware of when I assist him.  Neither of us ever speak of it.  He pretends not to notice and I pretend to be smug about it.”

“You feign smugness really well,” the doctor sneered, “but then again the best fakes are the ones that are being a little honest.”

“John,” Mycroft sighed, “I understand that this is a lot to take in.  I understand that you’re upset and angry, and that I am not entirely unworthy of such contempt.  But Sherlock was my brother.  Him and I were seemingly estranged from one another to outside parties, but we were both born different.  How much do you honestly think we hated one another?”  John swallowed thickly.  “Our childhood feuds were never really settled because we were both more than a little thick.  But it was, at times, a gesture of endearment.  Neither of us made any attempts to settle them because neither of us particularly wanted them to disappear.  Because if those got sorted out, what did we have?  Sherlock was a self-proclaimed sociopath who knew, at least at first, that he really wasn’t, and I’m so unattached at this point I honestly may have made myself one.  But he was my brother, and I loved and respected him dearly.  I worried about him.  Sometimes bruising his ego was the only way to get him to back off of something I feared would hurt him.  Other times the best way about it was to tell him it was below him, but that stopped working when he left university.  His addiction to the puzzles was more dangerous than his addiction to drugs at times.  When he met you I thought that maybe you could ground him.  And you did.  But then he did something I did not anticipate: he protected you.  Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes was putting the life of another before his own, rather than the solution to a puzzle.  I didn’t know how to handle that.  So I made one too many mistakes.  And it haunts me.”

Slowly, John leaned forward.  Mycroft’s gaze had left his a while ago.  He waited to speak until he had it back; when he did, he found himself at a loss for words.  “I’m sorry,” was all that came out.

A flash of guilt in the elder Holmes’s eyes, and then it was gone.  “No, I’m sorry.  This is one failure, with all of my resources, that I cannot redeem.”

“So the government’s not working on a way to raise the dead?” John asked lightly.  He was rewarded with a shy half-smile.

“No, rest assured, that’s one conspiracy theory you can readily ignore.”

“Don’t you mean ‘lay to rest?’”

“Reassuring to know you still retain your snark.”

“Hanging around Sherlock Holmes for two years can turn you in to a bit of a smartarse.”

“Imagine where he got it from.”

John laughed, his first genuine laugh in almost a year and a half.  “That’s terrifying.”

“Oh, I don’t think it was so bad,” Mycroft’s voice sounded distant, “unconventional, certainly, and conducive of many headaches, but hardly terrifying.  It wasn’t such a bad way to grow up.  Though, looking back on it, I suppose his experience was different.”  His head dipped, and John thought he heard him mumble “I did try.”  Not for the first time, John wondered just how integral Mycroft had been in the upbringing of Sherlock.  

The older man’s head snapped up.  “Well, I best be off.  The violin is yours to keep, as I said.  I think he would have preferred you had it.  Even as kids I was never allowed to touch this.  He certainly valued it.”  He took the case off the ground and placed it on the table, then made to stand.

“Did you keep the skull?” John asked, not realizing he was saying it aloud until after the words were out.

Mycroft thought a moment.  “I think it’s in with his equipment.  I told them not to throw anything away, to let me sort it out.  I never understood the significance of it, but he’s had it a while.  I don’t suppose you know?”

“Not really,” John admitted, “but I’d like him as well, if you don’t mind.”

“‘Him?’” Mycroft couldn’t help his mocking tone.

“He’s called Billy.  I don’t know.  I guess some of Sherlock’s quirks have rubbed off on me, too.”

“Well, you rubbed off on him a little as well.  Perhaps in more ways than you think.”  There was something ambiguous about Mycroft’s face and tone.  He turned to leave before John could study them any further.

“Mycroft,” John called.  The elder Holmes turned back around, hand on the doorknob.

“How old was he?” the doctor asked.  For as long as he had known Sherlock, he was discovering only now that he had never asked the man his age.  He always assumed him to be this immortal intelligence, this being that time could not pin down.  Such a foolish thing to do.  A soldier, of all people, should know just how ridiculous a concept immortality is.  

“Thirty-one,” Mycroft answered grimly.  John felt a tugging at his heart.  Younger than he had guessed.  They met when he was only twenty-nine.  And Lestrade had known him for five years already?  Christ, he started young.

“When did he start?”

“The Carl Powers case, as I assume he informed you of, hit the papers in 1989, so he would have been eight.  In his mind that’s when he started, I’m sure.  But he didn’t start becoming actively involved with crime solving until University.  No one took him seriously before then.  Sometimes I think he pursued a degree just to get people to shut up and listen.”

John smiled; it sounded like something a young Sherlock would do.  He nodded, and the elder Holmes took it as his permission to leave.  He would get in to his pricy, black, government-issued vehicle and return to his office (did he work out of an office?) and continue to run most of England, most likely with his brother’s unfinished final puzzle in the back of his mind.  Maybe that’s what John was seeing in his eyes: vengeance, the determination to finish what his brother started.  The thought pleased him.  For perhaps the first time in their lives, the Holmes brothers were working together on something.  

Bringing the case closer to him, John tentatively stroked the hard plastic, nervous to open it.  Steeling himself, he released the clasps and lifted the top with the pads of his fingers.  It looked the same: finishing faded lightly in the areas where he handled it most, strings pulled tight from obsessive tuning, but everything well maintained.  John did not know how to play, but he wouldn’t want to play this one.  He would leave it.  But not let it collect dust.  He’d look up how to care for a violin and keep it in as good condition as its previous owner.  

He stroked the wood body, and felt an almost sickening warmth as memories flooded his mind: Sherlock cradling the instrument when he was thinking, plucking at the strings just to stimulate himself, playing it at all hours to stimulate himself more.  The most moving melodies being drawn out from improvisation - John wished he could remember all of them, but most of them Sherlock didn’t like enough to write down.  Every now and again he’d come out with something self-satisfying and write down the notes.  He wondered if Mycroft would part with his brother’s sheet music.  Sherlock always handled the instrument with such care.

A droplet of water fell just next to the glossy wood.  John touched a hand to his face, pulling it away damp.  He was crying.  From happiness or sorrow, he could not tell, but it seemed irrelevant.  Sherlock poured his soul in to this object.  Even the great Sherlock Holmes, in his unparalleled ability to remain completely objective, could not help but attach emotional significance to something that existed to elicit emotion.  Now it was John’s to cherish.  

Time ceased to exist as he sat at the table, just staring at the only remnant of his late friend that he had.  He didn’t stop himself from crying, but eventually the tears ran out.  He was stiff from sitting on the hard chairs, but he didn’t care.  He wasn’t done admiring the object that was as beautiful and mysterious and remarkable and brilliant as its owner.  When he finally closed the case and stood to bring it to his bedroom, he felt the air in his lungs for the first time since Sherlock had knocked it out of him when he jumped.  

You meet people, and sometimes you lose them.  Those people that felt like the center of your universe or the force behind the days suddenly disappear, and the worst part of letting go is coming to terms with the fact that life goes on without them.  Because all lives are only temporary.  But that doesn’t mean they just disappear.  They leave something of themselves behind in each person they touch.  And sometimes they store part of themselves in their more prized possessions.  John was letting go, but that didn’t mean he was forgetting.  He would never forget Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
